


Shattered Porcelain

by mystiri1



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Hurt/Comfort, Latex, M/M, Prostitution, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-01
Updated: 2010-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystiri1/pseuds/mystiri1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aya wonders why the cracks don't show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered Porcelain

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. It wasn’t a particularly good mirror. There were some rusty brown spots where the silver backing had worn off, the edges were chipped, and the top right corner was slightly warped, making the dirty, cracked tiles on the wall look like they were sagging inwards. But none of these flaws blocked his face from view.

Aya had been told more than once that he was beautiful. Staring at his own face under the harsh fluorescent light of a cheap motel bathroom, he didn’t see it. Once, his sister had teased him about having a brother who was beautiful while she was merely pretty. He remembered blushing, laughing, trying to come up with a suitable retort, while she teased him even more about his reddened cheeks. Would she still say he was beautiful now, or would she see the difference in him, and realise how ugly he truly was?

He pushed that memory away. It was too bittersweet for words, knowing that the happiness he’d felt then, even mingled as it was with embarrassment and irritation, wasn’t a feeling he’d ever get back. It had been too innocent, and he wasn’t anymore.

But other people had told him he was beautiful. He’d heard the fangirls in the shop, giggling and whispering as if that would stop him from knowing what they were talking about. It didn’t, because they’d get all excited and in their giddiness, their voices would rise. He didn’t care about their opinions. That they could giggle, and flirt, and entertain girlish fantasies about him just told him how little they actually saw.

His target tonight had told him he was beautiful. What would he say now, if he could say anything?

_“Your skin... It’s so pale and smooth, like porcelain...”_  
__  
Aya recalled the words now, as he stared in the mirror. The hand that had stroked his cheek as the target spoke, leaving him to wonder if it was a pick-up line or an observation.

His skin was pale. Almost white, a sharp contrast to the vivid red of his hair. He watched the mirror as his own hand reached up, stroked along his cheek while the reflected face never changed its expression. His skin was smooth beneath his fingers, that was true. But it felt soft, slightly warm to the touch, and that was somehow wrong. Porcelain was smooth, yes, but cold and hard. His reached out and caressed the cheek of his reflection, instead. Yes, that was how it should be. Cold, and smooth...

_“My pretty porcelain doll... Will you let me play with you?”_

A porcelain doll. Aya contemplated his reflection. The pale skin, the features that were too delicate to be truly masculine. The frozen expression. The dead eyes.

A porcelain doll. It seemed a remarkably apt description. Not one that matched with beautiful, in Aya’s mind, but definitely fitting, in its own way. He’d seen them sitting on the shelves of a high-end gift store. Smooth, pale faces with delicate features, set in frozen, unchanging expressions. The eyes, crafted to look as lifelike as possible and failing. Aya had found them slightly horrific, repulsive rather than beautiful. Those eyes, in frozen faces, so dead and unfeeling.

His target hadn’t seen that. His target had seen what he wanted to see.

Aya closed his eyes, not wanting to see them staring back at him.

 

* * * * *

 

The mission was fairly straightforward, nothing he hadn’t done before. It was just Aya and Yohji, Omi and Ken having their own mission in the next city over, extracting some information from a corporation they suspected of illegal activities. Aya didn’t mind. Yohji was more familiar with this environment than their younger counterparts. In fact, the thought of Omi in a fetish club was just disturbing. Did the younger boy even know what it was?

If Ken and Omi knew that he occasionally took missions like these, they’d never said anything. They knew Yohji did – Yohji was not shy about anything sexual, and the idea of Yohji seducing a target wasn’t much of a stretch. It was another reason why Aya preferred Yohji as back-up on this: he’d done it before, and knew just how little it meant.

This time, though, Aya was the bait. Their target, Hideki Minamoto, was gay, and had a liking for the kinkier side of things. The club was one he frequented regularly – a hangout for people into the BDSM scene, made more popular by the availability of private rooms for hire. The intelligence they’d received on him showed a clear preference for pretty young men. He liked them looking delicate, fragile. Like something he could break.

And away from the ‘safe’ confines of the club, he would prove that fragility by breaking them.

Aya was not the kind to be easily broken, despite his appearance. Nor was it something he had to worry about tonight. Minamoto would pick up his victims, and test them out at the club. Then he’d wait. Let them be picked up by other people, so that there was a distance between them, before he’d abduct them and slowly torture them to death.

Yohji went in first. Aya waited ten minutes before he followed, so that people wouldn’t associate the two of them.

Only a little of the sound from the club spilled onto the street, so it was a bit of a shock when he got inside. Loud, pounding music played for the benefit of a crowded dance floor. It was hard to call what the people were doing there dancing. It mostly involved rubbing bodies together, touching in any way possible, and a number of them were dressed in outfits that were barely there, or left nothing to the imagination. Aya’s eyes rested briefly on one couple, moving in a way that suggested they were having sex right there. After a moment, he realised they were. None of the other dancers seemed to take much notice. The air was hot, scented with sweat and musk and leather.

The room was divided by a long bar, and Aya gravitated towards it. He spotted Yohji, already flirting with a busty brunette in a very short skirt, and a sheer top that showed off the nipple jewellery she was wearing. He thought of his own outfit, chosen by the blond. Tight black pants with a short, fishnet tank that clearly showed the bar pierced through one of his nipples. Yohji had talked him into that, for another mission a couple of months back. He now knew the suggestion had been only half serious, more of a joke, that Yohji had never expected him to go through with it, let alone keep it afterwards. He smirked. He’d kept it because he’d realised it spoke to one of the blond’s kinks, and Yohji deserved all the teasing he got.

The other accessory he wore was simple, and direct: a pair of black leather cuffs on his wrists, each one with a metal ring that would allow them to be fastened to something. Nothing like giving a clear invitation.

The problem was that there were plenty here who would be willing to take up that invitation. This was the part he truly hated. It was one thing to lure a target out using the promise of sex. It was another to fend off the advances of others with enough tact to not cause the target to get suspicious, while waiting for the target to make a move. Tact was not Aya’s strong suit.

Yohji looked casually in his direction, and their eyes met for a brief moment. Then the other assassin turned his head to the left. Aya followed the gesture, and spotted the target, already sitting at the bar.

Maybe he wouldn’t be waiting long.

He made a beeline for the bar, aiming for an empty seat a couple of stools down from Minamoto. He ordered a gin and tonic, taking a small sip before turning on his stool to look at the rest of the club. He never completely raised his head as he looked around, wanting to give the impression that he was new here, and possibly a little nervous.

Once again, Aya’s gaze lingered on the dance floor. If his target required more encouragement to make a move, he might have to venture out there. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. Aya didn’t mind dancing, but he did mind having so many people so close to him, brushing up against him, touching him without his permission. Particularly because if he gave in, just once, to his desire to glare at them for being so presumptuous, it would break character and scare off the target.

He was staring at the dancers, swirling the liquid about in his glass, when someone moved to stand in front of him. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Aya looked up, then dropped his eyes, his lips curving slightly. Minamoto. It came across as coy flirtation, rather than satisfaction for not being made to wait. “No.”

“I find that hard to believe. Someone as beautiful as you, and nobody claims you as their own?” It was an unsubtle query.

Aya shrugged, a movement that drew Minamoto’s eyes downward, to where two small silver balls glinted in the dim light of the bar, framing a small, pink nipple through the open weave of his top. “I don’t belong to anybody in particular, no.”

“Maybe that will change tonight.”

“Maybe.”

The other man slid onto the stool beside Aya, a move that put them face to face he was still turned away from the bar. Their knees nudged at each other, and Minamoto moved as if to make himself more comfortable on the stool. It ended with both his legs settled between Aya’s parted thighs, one drawn up so that the knee was mere inches from the crotch of Aya’s pants.

Yeah, Aya thought even as he deliberately squirmed just a little closer, subtle just wasn’t this guy’s style.

“This is your first time coming here?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. I’m sure I would have noticed someone who looked like you, if you’d been here before.”

Aya tilted his head, imitating a move he’d seen several women use when flirting with Yohji. It was strange, and the body language felt distinctly alien to him, but concentrating on how to flirt, focusing on the behaviours he didn’t usually bother with, helped keep him centred on missions like this, thwarting his usual reactions. “I’m flattered.”

That didn’t mean it was easy to make this kind of meaningless small talk, and sound like he meant it.

“Oh, I’m sure you know what you look like,” Minamoto purred.

Aya slid him a glance from under his eyelashes. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Minamoto laughed. “Fishing, are we? You, my boy, look like a walking wet dream.”

_Yeah, that’s such a wonderful image, _Aya thought sarcastically, but his lips curved as though pleased. “One of yours, I hope?”

“If you’re willing, I intend to do much more than just dream, my boy.”

“If I’m not, I’m sure you can... convince me.” He wet his lips with his tongue. The smile that graced them was even sincere, in its way; he was quite satisfied with the harsh sound that little move dragged from his target. Some of his team mates might find it hard to believe, but he could flirt if he put his mind to it, and do it well, too.

A hand reached out to clasp his chin, and dragged it upwards, forcing him to meet the other man’s gaze. This did make Aya a little nervous, as it was harder to lie to someone with your eyes. He let his submissive pose slip a fraction, let a touch of challenge show in his eyes. It wouldn’t be entirely out of place in this conversation.

“Hmm, those eyes of yours are quite something, aren’t they? Such an unusual colour.” He stroked a thumb over Aya’s jaw. “Your skin... it’s so pale and smooth, like porcelain... You are quite beautiful. I’m also guessing you’re quite a handful.”

Aya stilled. He didn’t want the man to write him off as too much trouble to fuck. He tried to figure out what his next move should be. Think submissive, Aya, he told himself. Minamoto’s finger had slipped up to brush his lips now, and Aya parted them, sucked one fingertip inside in a deliberately suggestive move.

Minamoto groaned. “Yes, quite a handful indeed. But I think I’m up to the task. All you need is a firm hand.”

Aya stiffened as the man’s other hand cupped his crotch. He wondered whether he should be grateful for Yohji’s wardrobe choices, or cursing them. The pants were very tight, made out of latex. It was hot, sweaty, and left little to the imagination. He wore no underwear as a result, and they actually zipped up the back, a very fine, almost invisible zipper that went all the way down the curve of his ass.

The constriction about his cock was incredible: every move he’d made since he put them on, he’d felt in the way the material gripped and tugged at his cock. It meant that even now, he was semi-hard, which was good for convincing the target that yes, Aya was definitely interested. It also meant that as the other man squeezed and played with his cock, hardening him further, there was nowhere for his cock to go. He whimpered at the restriction, and wondered if Yohji had ever tried foreplay while wearing ridiculously tight latex pants. He pressed himself more firmly against the touch, his eyes closed, grateful that the dire thoughts currently circling in his mind didn’t show.

“Yes, I can picture that pretty mouth of your sucking my cock in just as eagerly, while you look up at me with those lovely violet eyes. Suck it harder,” Minamoto ordered, his voice sharpening. Aya complied, the words steadying him a little. He cracked his eyes open to watch the other man from beneath his lashes. “I wonder if those pale cheeks of yours will flush with colour when you come?”

He knew the words were supposed to be verbal foreplay, and another way of establishing who was in charge. But Aya was here to kill, not get laid. They helped divorce his mind from the sensations Minamoto’s hand was created as it tortured his confined erection.

“You are so very beautiful. Almost too beautiful to be real, like one of those dolls you see sitting on a shelf, to be looked at, and not played with. But it would be a pity not to play with this tight little body of yours. And your cock says you want to play, too. My pretty porcelain doll... Will you let me play with you?” He slid the finger out of Aya’s mouth so very slowly, saliva clinging wetly to it as he leaned close. “I want to tie you up and play with that gorgeous body of yours until you beg, and then I’ll keep playing until you’re too exhausted to do even that.”

Aya simply nodded. This was the crucial part, the point where it could all go wrong. He certainly had no intention of being tied up and played with. But Aya wasn’t armed; he couldn’t conceal a pocket knife in what he was wearing, let alone a katana. Yohji was, however, the watch in which he concealed his wires fastened about his wrist. If Minamoto led them out of the club, then Yohji would follow, and complete the job while Aya distracted the target.

It wasn’t Minamoto’s usual pattern, though, and that pattern was Plan A: Aya’s sword was concealed in Minamoto’s favourite room, a ‘dungeon’ with bondage apparatus, and a number of whips and toys hanging on the wall.

“Come along then. I have a room reserved for me.”

Aya obediently followed him to the ‘private’ section of the club, thinking that this part of the profile was spot on. Minamoto booked a room before he even picked anyone up? Granted, he’d come to realise that at some clubs you didn’t require a lot of effort to get laid, but Minamoto wasn’t lacking in confidence. No, make that arrogance – most of the killers Aya had met during his time in Weiss had that in spades. It took arrogance to play God, to end a human life on nothing more than a whim.

Even now, after killing for so long himself, Aya couldn’t understand it. He killed, yes – for a purpose. Orders, obsession, revenge, desperation – he killed, but there was always a reason, and he never forgot what it made him. To kill just because he could? He concealed a shudder as Minamoto turned.

“Just in here, my little doll.” He swung a door open, and gestured for Aya to precede him.

It was the right room, after all. Aya could feel his shoulders tense as he stepped forward, uncomfortable with the other man at his back. The fact that he knew there were no other exits from the room made it worse. His usual reactions and instincts were surfacing, and the proximity of the kill made it hard to push them back and simply flirt. He stiffened as Minamoto stepped close behind him, arms slipping about his waist. He could feel the solid lump of an erection pressing against his lower back.

“Are you nervous, my little doll?” Minamoto was a bit taller than Aya, but the swordsman knew he was more than a match for him in strength. Swinging a katana around with such ease required more upper body strength then most people realised. “I did tell you I was going to be tying you up...”

He thought he was bothered by the room? Aya couldn’t see anything particularly disturbing. The left hand wall side of the room was taken up by the frame of a St Andrew’s cross, while on the right hung various paddles, crops and whips. A short bench stood in the middle of the floor, its purpose made clear by the rings embedded in its side, and its padded vinyl surface looking old and worn. Against the far wall was a cot with cuffs welded to the head and foot. Not terribly subtle, but Aya had seen perversity far worse than this in his time with Weiss.

But he’d spotted what he was looking for: a slightly darker shape against the dark floor, hidden in the shadows on the other side of the horse. The sheathed length of his katana.

He wriggled about in Minamoto’s grip, so that he was facing the man – his chin, anyway – then wriggled some more, rubbing their hips together. “All I need to know is where do you want me?” Aya said breathily. “Or perhaps that should be, how do you want me?” He tilted his head, tongue darting out to lick the other man’s throat. The sudden willingness had Minamoto’s arms relaxing.

Aya stepped away, and moved towards the bench. He stopped in front of it, standing with his legs splayed. “Do you want me like this?” He bent over the vinyl surface, ass high in the air, a blatant invitation. He didn’t just stop there, but bent right forward, his arms reaching down on the other side in a move that arched and stretched his back, the short fishnet top he wore riding up to expose even more pale white skin than it already did. It angled his hips up so that it clearly showed just how far down the curve of his ass the fine silver zipper went. He could hear footsteps as Minamoto came closer, so distracted by the ‘show’ he was putting on, he didn’t even look at what Aya’s hands were doing on the far side of the bench.

When he judged that the target was close enough, Aya shot upright, sheath in one hand, hilt in the other. He whirled, the blade of his katana slipping free as he turned. It left the sheath with a soft metallic hiss that then became a wet, sucking sound as it continued on through the target’s throat, the spray of warm blood tracing its path. Several droplets struck Aya’s face.

Minamoto was caught completely by surprise. There was no chance for any outcry. He had a shocked look in his eyes, and his hands reached abortively up to his neck as he crumpled backwards.

Aya looked at the dying man. The blade had cut through the front part of the neck, severing the windpipe, as well as major arteries. It hadn’t gone back far enough to sever the spine, and cease all communication from the central nervous system. A slit throat was not necessarily a fast way to die. His heart was still pumping, the blood leaving the body in erratic spurts that showed his heartbeat was faltering from the shock of such a trauma. Already they were less powerful than the usual arterial flow, as his blood volume decreased. Minamoto was clearly what Aya though of as the unlucky ones – one of those who didn’t simply die from the shock of such a bodily insult as much as the injury itself. Now the question remained whether he would bleed out, drown in the blood he was aspirating as his body tried to function in the way it was accustomed to, or if brain death from lack of blood flow would occur first. The last usually took awhile.

But the spreading pool of blood was messy, and Aya wanted to get out of the room without leaving bloody footprints everywhere. He shrugged and leaned forward.

He slid the katana blade up under the ribs, aiming for the heart. He twisted the blade just a little, and noticed an immediate cease to the arrhythmic flow. It seeped, then stilled as Minamoto’s eyes took on a fixed glassy look.

There was a chair by the door, he now noticed. It held a stack of folded white towels, and at the bottom of the pile he could see something familiar. His coat. That would make slipping out of here with his katana much easier.

Aya used one of the towels to clean the blood from his face, then shrugged the coat on. Another towel removed most of the blood from his blade, although he knew it would need a thorough cleaning as soon as he had the chance. He tucked the sheathed katana inside his coat, and calmly left the room.

The Aya who stalked back through the club was a stark contrast to the one who had entered earlier. He was dangerous and unapproachable, dominant, a long way from the pretty little submissive he’d played, so much so that few people would ever connect the two. One who did was a blond man at the bar, now flirting with two women, neither of whom was his earlier companion. He noted the departure, and followed a minute or two later.

 

* * * * *

 

Aya opened his eyes again. He didn’t see what people found so remarkable about their colour. They didn’t seem beautiful to him, just... dead.

A porcelain doll. A lifeless manikin with dead eyes. How appropriate.

But real porcelain was fragile. Real porcelain, if it was damaged, would show cracks, or even shatter entirely. Staring at his reflection, Aya wondered why the damage didn’t show.

Aya was staring at a webbing of cracks spread across the glass before he was even aware of it. He blinked, uncomprehending, then realised that the network of lines radiated out from his fist, which still pressed against the glass. He pulled it away, a few slivers of glass embedded in the knuckles. He didn’t remember hitting it, and he thought that it should probably hurt.

“Aya? I heard -” Yohji’s voice cut off as he entered the bathroom. There was an exasperated sigh, the exhalation containing a hefty amount of cigarette smoke. “What are you doing?”

“That’s still not right,” Aya commented, his gaze on the cracked glass. “They’re in the wrong place.” All he saw was a shattered mirror, and not a cracked and broken him.

“I’d ask you to explain that typically cryptic comment, but I don’t think even you know what’s going on in that screwed up head of yours at times.” Yohji stopped just behind him, looking at the damage over his shoulder. “Did it look at you wrong, or something?” Aya said nothing. “Give me your hand.”

Aya held up his fist, not resisting as Yohji took it in his. The blond reached around him to stub his cigarette out in the basin, then fished around in the toiletries bag sitting on the counter. It held more first aid supplies than it did shampoo and the like, grooming being of less importance on such a trip than ensuring all parties returned in one piece. His hand emerged holding a pair of tweezers, and he set to extracting the splinters of glass. Aya turned a little, to make it easier in the cramped confines.

“Do you think my skin looks like porcelain?”

Amused, cynical green eyes met his. “I think you couldn’t get a tan if you tried.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

A few more silent minutes stretched between them.

“The target told me a looked like a porcelain doll.”

“Hn.” Yohji cocked his head, and considered this new piece of information. “You mean, like those expensive ones that you can’t touch ‘cos you’ll mess them all up?”

“Yes.”

“They’re creepy.”

Aya sighed in satisfaction. Yohji saw it too. “Yes. But if I’m porcelain, the cracks should show.”

“Hence the mirror.” The blond sounded as if that made perfect sense to him. At times Aya wasn’t sure if Yohji truly understood what he was saying, or just wasn’t bothered by his general weirdness. Either way, it made the blond assassin one of the few people he would hold a genuine conversation with. “You satisfied now?”

“No, they’re in the wrong place.”

“You’re not porcelain, although there are times when you’re definitely cracked.” The mocking tone was unconcerned.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Yohji pulled the last sliver out, and held Aya’s hand under the faucet, cold water spilling over the small wounds. Aya’s breath hissed inwards. It still didn’t hurt more than a little, and he didn’t think his knuckles were bleeding much, either. But it was very cold.

“He saw something that wasn’t there. It was just what he wanted to see.”

“What do you mean?” Aya asked, curious.

“He called you a porcelain doll because he wanted to see something fragile and breakable. That’s not you.” Yohji switched the faucet off, and patted the hand dry with a towel. “You may be too damned pale, but you’re nothing like porcelain.”

“What am I like then?”

Yohji moved around behind him, turning so they were both staring in the mirror, eyes meeting in the reflection. “You make me think of diamond.”

“Diamond?”

“The hardest natural material currently known to man, formed only under extreme pressure,” Yohji explained. “To really get the most out of it, it then has to be cut and polished, the imperfections ground away, until you’re left with something so hard and sharp it can cut through glass without breaking it.”

“Really.” The word wasn’t a question, more of a quiet musing as Aya leaned into the warm body at his back.

“Hmm. And for all that hardness, if it catches the light just right, it will leave you completely dazzled.” Yohji’s breath ghosted over Aya’s ear as he spoke.

“You say the nicest things,” Aya sighed.

“That’s you.” Yohji shrugged. “Hard and sharp and dazzling – and unbreakable.” He leaned forward, and his teeth closed on Aya’s earlobe. “But I know how to make you shatter.”

Aya moaned softly, tilting his head to allow the other man access to the long line of his neck. He watched the graceful dip of Yohji’s head in the mirror as he took up the invitation, nibbling and sucking on the sensitive skin there, leaving behind reddened marks. His arms slipped around Aya’s waist, hand dipping down to cup the bulge that was Aya’s cock, his hips rocking gently against the redhead’s ass.

“You bastard,” Aya hissed, as Yohji teased and squeezed his confined erection. “Do you have any idea how damned tight and uncomfortable these pants are?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Yohji hummed, sounding extremely pleased with himself. “Why do you think I chose them?”

“Sadist.”

“Only for you.” Yohji’s tongue teased Aya’s ear. “But you can take it, can’t you?”

“I can take anything you dish out, Kudoh.”

“See? So proud and stubborn – and hot.” His hand closed on Aya’s cock, and squeezed through the rubbery material. “Very hot. Do you want me to take it out?”

“Yes, damn you.”

Yohji moved back only far enough to slip his hand between his hips and Aya’s ass. There was a soft rasp as the zipper slid down – and down. If he wanted to, Aya realised, Yohji could fuck him like this, without ever letting his cock free. The opening certainly went low enough, as was shown by the way the blond’s fingers dipped inside to tease the taut little rosebud of his ass. Aya whimpered, even as he wondered how it would feel.

But then Yohji peeled back the latex on either side of the zip. It came free of the skin with a wet, sucking sound, sweat making it cling to flesh. His hands slid around, working the pants down over his hips, then carefully peeling it away from Aya’s cock. The redhead gave a strangled cry as it sprung free, hard and aching, the tip slick with pre-cum.

Yohji stopped there, the waistband catching Aya just underneath the balls, thrusting both them and his cock upwards. He panted as the blond played with the hard length, stroking and tugging at it as if he had all night.

“Yohji -” Although he said no more, the name carried a hint of the threat that followed.

Yohji just laughed.

Once again one hand dipped inside the toiletries bag, this time emerging with a condom. The other never stopped playing with Aya’s dick, rubbing the fluid leaking there over the head and down the shaft with leisurely movements. Another zipper rasped; foil tore. Yohji’s condom-covered cock nudged at his ass cheeks as his hand appeared in front of Aya’s face. “Suck,” the blond ordered as he met Aya’s hungry gaze in the mirror. “Get them nice and wet.”

Aya obliged, his tongue sliding along the gaps between the fingers. He could taste a hint of the lubricant from the condom, slightly anti-sceptic, but it didn’t matter. His eyes never left Yohji’s, a deliberate challenge as his head suddenly moved forward, taking them deep into his mouth.

Yohji groaned. “Tease,” he muttered, pulling his hand away. When Aya felt the fingers again, they were parting his ass cheeks, one finger sliding straight inside the tight little hole, slick as it was with his own saliva.

He moaned, and pressed back against it, bracing himself on the sink.

“God, you want this, don’t you?”

“Yesss,” Aya hissed.

Yohji moved the finger back and forth, the pad briefly grazing that spot that made him see stars.

“Ungh.” Aya shoved back against him, feeling another finger questing against his opening. It joined the first inside, stretching him. “Dammit, enough! Fuck me already!”

The fingers were pulled out, and he felt the hand slap against his backside. “Lean forward.”

Aya obliged, and for a moment, his cock was abandoned, as both hands tugged his ass cheeks wide. He could feel the brief rush of cold air against his eager hole, then something blunt and slick nudged against it.

Then Yohji’s hips slammed forward, and he was buried inside.

Aya screamed, the sensations – pain/pleasure/fullness/_need_ – overwhelming him. When he was aware again, he could hear a voice murmuring brokenly, “More, please, move, fuck me, now, please...” and he recognised it as his own. It was as far from his normal cold tones as he could get, and only Yohji could do this to him.

Only Yohji could make him want this.

Yohji held still. “Look in the mirror, Aya.”

Aya lifted his head and looked.

He could see Yohji behind him, dishevelled, a slight growth of beard on his cheeks, a hungry look on his face. The blond’s lips curved in a smile that was half predatory snarl, and all satisfaction. And then his own face, eyes dark and dazed, cheeks flushed, lips parted as he panted. As he watched Yohji flexed his hips, and he watched as his eyes half-closed in pleasure, his lips forming a small, pink ‘o’ shape as he moaned.

“Dazzling,” the blond muttered. Once again he wrapped a hand around Aya’s cock. “Keep watching,” he ordered, and began to move.

The rhythm was hard and fast, the hand on his cock jerking it with no attempt at gentleness. Aya watched as each thrust shoved him forward, towards the mirror, and each withdrawal tugged him back, as if he wanted to keep Yohji’s cock inside him. His eyes drifted up a little, seeing the intent expression on Yohji’s face as he pounded him into the bathroom counter. There was nothing smooth or practiced to it now, just sex and hunger.

“Watch,” Yohji ordered again.

Aya glanced back down, meeting his own gaze in the mirror. His eyes didn’t look dead anymore, he realised abstractedly, his attention more on the feel of the cock sliding back and forth inside him.

Yohji shoved particularly deep, and he felt the convulsive shudder that signalled the other man’s orgasm. His hand tightened around Aya’s cock in a grip that was almost painful.

Aya shattered.


End file.
